James Chase - Strictly For Cash

Brant started as if someone had goosed him with a red-hot poker.

Three men had appeared from nowhere and were standing near the ring. The one who had spoken was short and square-shouldered. His face was as uncompromising as a hatchet and as thin, and his black eyes were deep-set, still and glittering. He had on a bottle-green linen suit, a white slouch hat, and his pencil-lined moustache looked starkly black against his olive skin.

The other two were the kind of muscle men you can see in a Hollywood movie any day of the week. Two Wops, pale imitations of their boss, tough, dangerous, and more at home with a gun or a knife than with their fists.

I didn’t like the look of any of them.

“Hello, Mr. Petelli,” Brant said, his grin fixed and his eyes scared. “I didn’t see you come in.”

Petelli let his eyes slide over me. I had a feeling there wasn’t a muscle, mole or freckle missed in that one searching glance.

“Where did you find him?”

“He’s the guy who bust MacCready’s jaw,” Brant said, and nervously took out his handkerchief and mopped his face.

“I heard about that. Is it your idea to match this boy against the Kid?”

“I was coming to see you about it, Mr. Petelli. But first I wanted to find out how he shaped.”

“The nigger seems to think he shapes all right,” Petelli said with a thin smile.

“He’s a little out of training...” Brain began, but Petelli cut him short.

“Come down to my office in an hour. We’ll go into it.” He looked at me. “What do you call yourself?”

“The name’s Farrar,” I said curtly, and ducked under the ropes.

“You look a good boy to me,” Petelli said. “I can give you some fights. Have you signed with Brain?”

“I haven’t signed with anyone,” I said, “and I’m not signing with anyone. This is strictly my one and only appearance.”

“You’d better come down with Brant, and we’ll talk this over,” Petelli said. “I can give you a fight a month.”

“I’m not interested,” I said, and walked across the gym to the changing booths in a sudden silence you could hang your hat on.

I got back to Roche’s Café in time to see Josh Bates driving his six-wheel truck along the waterfront towards the Miami highway. I watched him go with mixed feelings. I had a sneaking idea I should have been on that truck.

Roche was polishing an urn when I walked in.

“So you changed your mind,” he said. “Josh waited around for you. What happened?”

“Sorry, Tom. I got hung up.” I told him of Brant’s offer. “With a car and five hundred bucks I’ll be set. It means hanging around for four days, but when I go I’ll move on my own steam.”

I went on to tell him about Petelli.

“You want to keep an eye on that baby,” Roche said. “He’s got a bad reputation.”

“I can believe it, and I intend to keep out of his way. I’ve got to do a little training. There’s not much time, but I figure I can get into some sort of shape before Saturday.”

“You’ll stay with us, Johnny. Don’t argue. We’ll be glad to have you.”

I didn’t argue. I was glad to be with them.

Later, Solly Brant came into the café. He slumped down at a corner table as if he had completed a ten-mile run.

I went over and joined him.

“Well, it’s all fixed,” he said heavily. “It took all my time to convince Petelli this was your last fight. I think you’re making a mistake, Farrar. Petelli could make you a sack of dough.”

“I’m not interested.”

“That’s what I told him, and I finally convinced him, but you’ve still time to change your mind.”

“I’m not changing it.”

Brant shifted uneasily.

“It’ll make a difference.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, look, if this is going to be your last fight, you can’t expect Petelli to take much interest in you, can you?”

“I don’t want him to. The less I have to do with him the better I’ll like it.”

“But he’s got his money on the Kid, so the Kid’s got to win.”

“Well, all right, if the Kid’s all that good, he probably will win.”

“He’s got to win,” Brant said huskily. “It’s orders.”

I stared at him.

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve arranged for me to take a dive?”

“That’s it. Petelli’s giving you a big build-up. The betting will switch, and he’s spreading his dough on the Kid. My instructions are for you to take a dive in the third.”

“I told you: I’ve never taken a dive, and I don’t intend to take one now.”

Brant mopped his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief.

“Look, Farrar, you’re getting five hundred bucks and a car out of this. For the love of Mike don’t make it difficult.”

“If the Kid can’t win by beating me, then it’s his funeral. I’m not taking a dive!”

“You haven’t any choice,” Brant said, beginning to sweat. “When Petelli says a thing it sticks.”

“Well, let’s take that a step further. Suppose I don’t take orders from him — what then?”

“You’re up to your neck in trouble. I’m not kidding. Petelli’s poison. There was a boy who lost him a lot of money a couple of years back, not doing what he was told. They laid for him and smashed his hands so he never fought again. They bashed his knuckles with a steel rod until they were pulp, and that’s what’ll happen to you if you don’t do what he tells you.”

“They’ll have to catch me first.”

“They’ll catch you. The other boy thought he was smart. He ducked out of town, but they caught up with him. It took them six months to find him, but they found him. He was picked up with a cracked skull and broken mitts, and he’s never been any good since.”

“You don’t scare me,” I said, getting angry. “This is going to be a straight fight or I quit!”

“Use your head, Farrar,” Brant pleaded. “If Petelli says you take a dive, then goddamn it, you’ll take a dive. Ask anyone. Ask Roche. You just don’t fool with Petelli. What he says goes.”

“Not with me, it doesn’t.” I stood up. “This is my last fight, and I’m not getting mixed up in a dive. Tell Petelli that from me.”

“You tell him,” Brant said hurriedly. “It’s your baby now.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t. You fixed this: you unfix it. I’m going over to the gym to loosen up.”

He must have rushed around to Petelli the moment I had left the café, for I was just getting warmed up in the gym under Waller’s supervision when Petelli’s two muscle men came in.

Later I was to learn their names were Pepi and Benno. Pepi was a slick-looking Wop, wearing a pencil-lined moustache like his boss, while Benno was fat and blue-chinned and vicious.

They marched in like they owned the place, and Waller froze at the sight of them. All right, I admit it, there was something about those two that made my flesh creep.

“Come on,” Pepi said, jerking his thumb at me, “get your clothes on. The boss wants you.”

“I’m busy,” I said. “He’ll find me here if he wants me that badly.”

I heard Waller catch his breath. He was looking at me as if he thought I was crazy.

“Don’t give me that stuff,” Pepi snarled, his pinched face vicious. “Get your clothes on and come!”

He was a head shorter than I was, and I didn’t want to hit him, but hit he was going to be if he didn’t change his tone.

“Get out of here!” I said. “Both of you, before I toss you out.”

“Toss us out,” Benno said, and a blue-nosed automatic jumped into his hand. “You heard us the first time. Get your clothes on or you’ll stop a slug with your belly!”

His still glittering eyes warned me he wasn’t bluffing.